Here Be Dragons

  “Oh, love…” Leaning over, Joanna gave him a lingering kiss. “That is blasphemous,” she said huskily, “and the most memorable compliment any woman ever got.”

  In reply, Llewelyn dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose, then yawned. Joanna chose to disregard the hint, not yet willing to relinquish the utter euphoria of the moment. “Llewelyn…will you tell me of Tangwystl? Did you love her?”

  “Yes, I did.” Llewelyn did not open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved in a smile. “Tangwystl was a flaming redhead, and she did fret over her coloring fully as much as you do over yours, red hair being thought accursed since the days of Judas. But like you, she was fair to look upon…very fair.”

  Joanna did not begrudge Tangwystl that echo of past passion. She felt no jealousy for a dead woman; all her anxieties were for a rival very much alive, for Cristyn. Did he love Cristyn? That was the question she dared not ask.

  “Did you never think to wed Tangwystl, Llewelyn?”

  “I had not the right, had to make a marriage that would be to Gwynedd’s good.”

  Joanna wondered why she’d asked a question with so obvious an answer. However lovely Isabelle was, she knew her father would not have married her had she not also been heiress to Angoulême, and Llewelyn was no less ambitious. “Llewelyn…”

  He yawned again. “Joanna, had I known you were one for talking all night, I might have thought twice ere I told Aldwyn to move this bed and all your belongings into my chamber.”

  Joanna stared at him, momentarily rendered mute. He was so nonchalant, as if unaware of what he was offering her. Sleeping every night in his bed, she’d be a true wife in every sense of the word, not just a consort, a political pawn. And, Lady Mary, what it would mean, to be able to fall asleep in his arms, to reach out and touch him in the night, and, most blessed mercy of all, never to have to lie awake wondering if he was in Cristyn’s bed.

  “I thought we’d use this chamber for wellborn guests…” Llewelyn paused, belatedly remembering that a private chamber was no small luxury. “Or would you rather keep it for your own, Joanna?”

  “Oh, Llewelyn, beloved, need you ask? I’d rather sleep with you in a hut than alone in a palace!”

  Llewelyn could not help laughing at the extravagant innocence of that avowal, at once regretted it, for he felt Joanna tense. She’d turned her head aside on the pillow, and he leaned over, touched her cheek. Her lashes lifted, their eyes met, and then she said, “You knew?”

  “Let’s say I hoped,” he said with a smile, and Joanna flushed.

  “That is why I did not want to tell you, so you’d not feel you had to…to be gallant. It’s not fair to you.” She bit her lip, all too aware that she was floundering. “What I’m trying to say, Llewelyn, is that I…I’m willing to settle for what you can give.”

  Llewelyn did not answer at once. He’d been rather bemused by her obvious affection for John, had finally conceded that, whatever his other failings, John had at least done right by Joanna. Now he found himself thinking that however much John had done for her, it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “You hold yourself too cheaply, breila,” he said gently. “It is true that when I came to Chester last spring, it was to wed with the English King’s daughter. But I did ride back through a snowstorm tonight for Joanna.”

  21

  Tewkesbury, England

  November 1207

  John leaned over the cradle, gazed down at his sleeping son. He felt no particular tenderness for the child, not yet; he’d never had any interest in infants. But he did feel a deep sense of wonder.

  “Wherever did he get such red hair? I’m right glad that you are not a suspicious husband, love!”

  “My father had reddish hair,” John said absently, only half listening to his wife. But then he caught the scent of rosemary, felt her arms slip around his waist. For more than six years she’d been unable to conceive, to give him the heir a King must have. Had she ever despaired? Had she feared that he might put her aside, find grounds to disavow the marriage? He did not know, for they had never discussed it. He’d shrunk from ever saying it aloud, gripped by an irrational belief that to admit his fear would be to make it fact. Turning now, he looked at the lovely face upturned to his. How fair she was. But that had only served to feed his fear. For as the years had passed and her womb failed to quicken, he’d begun to suspect that God had played a macabre and sardonic jest upon him, giving him as wife and Queen the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, the most desirable bedmate he’d ever had—only then to make her barren.

  When she’d suddenly announced that she was pregnant, he’d been stunned, and then wary, not letting himself hope. She could still miscarry, could give birth to a daughter; God might well see that as the ultimate ironic jest. But her pregnancy had been utterly uneventful, and on the morning of October 1, she had given birth to a healthy son.

  “Geoffrey, Richard, Osbert, Oliver, Henry…and now Henry again, for our babe. Why have you not named any of your sons after yourself, John?”

  John shrugged, glanced across the chamber at the monk hovering in the doorway. “What is it?”

  “Your son has returned from Wales, my liege. May he enter?”

  John nodded, and a moment later Richard strode swiftly into the chamber. “You’ve given me a devil of a chase, Papa. I reached Winchcombe this morn, only to be told you’d departed for St Mary’s Abbey, was not at all sure I’d be able to overtake you.”

  “Never mind that. What news of Joanna?”

  Richard grinned. “The best news, Papa. On All Saints’ Day, Joanna did give birth to a black-haired baby daughter.”

  “Did she now?” John smiled. “She and the babe, they are all right?”

  “Indeed, Papa,” Richard said without hesitation. In truth, Joanna had not had an easy time; the birth had been a difficult one. But Joanna was now convalescing, was rapidly regaining her strength, and Richard, ever a pragmatist, saw no need for his father and Isabelle to know.

  “A girl…” Isabelle was staring at Richard in dismay. “Was Joanna very disappointed?”

  “She was not disappointed at all.”

  There was a pause, and then Isabelle said, “I’m so glad,” but without any conviction. She knew that had she herself given birth to a daughter, not all the balm in Gilead could have healed so grievous a hurt. Linking her arm in John’s, she murmured, “A January return, a November birth—our Joanna did not waste any time putting my advice into practice, did she?” John looked at her so blankly that she prompted, “Do you not remember, love? What I told you about Joanna and Llewelyn?”

  John gave a noncommittal grunt, and she fought an urge to laugh. One of the traits she most liked in John was their shared love of gossip. He was no less interested than she in court scandal, enjoyed regaling her with bawdy stories and ribald jests, with invariably accurate accounts of who was sinning with whom. But not once had she ever heard him mention the most scandalous stories of all, those lurid rumors of his mother’s youthful indiscretions. And he was, of a sudden, showing the same reticence about his daughter’s love life. It amused Isabelle in no small measure, but the lesson was not lost upon her. Seeing now that Richard was regarding her with uncomprehending curiosity, she gave him a meaningless smile, having no intention of enlightening him, for by her lights, secrets shared in bed did not count and her faith still remained unbroken.

  John moved away from the cradle, settled himself comfortably in a cushioned window seat. “Do not keep me in suspense, Richard. What unpronounceable Welsh name did Llewelyn inflict upon that innocent babe?”

  “Elen, which is Welsh for Helen.”

  John pondered that for a moment and then conceded, “Well, I grant you it could be worse. But is it true that Llewelyn is making Joanna learn that lunatic language of his?”

  Richard laughed, before realizing that his father was not joking. “I do believe it was Joanna’s idea, Papa,” he said mildly, and John frowned.

  “Indeed?
It’s well and good to be a dutiful wife, but…”

  “Dutiful wife?” Richard echoed, much amused. “Papa, Joanna does—”

  “John, love, did you not say you’d promised to spare some moments for Abbot Walter ere we sup?” Isabelle’s intercession was adroitly done, her query conveying no more than a commendable wifely concern. But Richard was not slow; he gave his stepmother a probing look, then wandered over to the cradle to study his baby brother.

  John was in no hurry to depart; it was some moments before he reluctantly went off in search of the Abbot. As soon as the door closed behind him, Richard demanded, “Why did you cut me short like that, Isabelle?”

  “Because, my dearest, you were about to say that Joanna is hopelessly besotted with her husband…or words to that effect, were you not?”

  “And if I was? It is true enough, after all.”

  “Of course it is true. But to say so would have done neither John nor Joanna a kindness, and least of all Llewelyn.”

  Richard started to protest, stopped, and reflected upon what she seemed to be saying. Isabelle was only a year older than he, and when he’d first begun to feel the sexual stirrings of manhood, he had, for a time of brief and exquisite torment, believed himself to be in love with his father’s beautiful wife. So shamed had he been by these wayward yearnings that he’d fought them the only way he knew how, by scorning the object of his sinful lust, by convincing himself that Isabelle was a frivolous little fool, vain and flighty. As an amputation of the soul, it proved to be an effective if drastic cure, and in time he’d outgrown both the desire and the disdain. Within the past year or so, he’d found his sense of perspective returning, and he was once again able to look upon his stepmother without distortion, to see her for what she was and what she was not.

  It would never occur to him to discuss with Isabelle the ramifications of John’s ongoing quarrel with the Pope. Richard well knew that Isabelle gave little thought to the threat of Interdict and excommunication. But Isabelle knew his father as no one else did, was the first woman to hold his affections, in and out of bed. That was no small feat; it earned her the right to be heard, and he said, “Why do you say that, Isabelle? Papa wants Joanna to be happy; surely you do not doubt that?”

  “Yes, he does,” she agreed indulgently. “He wants her to be safe and cared for and content. He does not want her to be utterly and passionately in love with Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. Ah, Richard, do you know your father as little as that? Do you not know that John needs ever to come first with those who love him? Is that so surprising? Why do you think John did not attend Joanna’s wedding? Oh, I know the reasons he gave why he could not. But if he’d truly wanted to be there, he would have been. He did not, and so he was not.”

  Joining Richard by the cradle, she began to rock it gently back and forth. “Trust me, Richard, in this. Do not speak to John of Joanna’s abiding love for Llewelyn; he does not want to hear it. I think Joanna must sense that, for her letters to him are unlike those to me. To me alone does she go on at length about the unlikely perfections of her Welsh Prince.” She laughed suddenly, giving Richard a look that was amused and affectionate and faintly flirtatious. “If he is half as good as she thinks, she’s found herself a rare man indeed, one well worth the keeping! Now tell me…we know Joanna’s heart. But what of Llewelyn? You’ve seen them together, Richard; does he love her?”

  “That is a woman’s question if ever I heard one! How would I be likely to know that, Isabelle? I can only tell you that he seems fond enough of her.” Richard paused, considering. “He has a hunting lodge at Trefriw in the River Conwy valley. The nearest church is at Rhychwyn, about a two-mile walk up a mountain path too steep for horses, and when Llewelyn learned Joanna was with child, he ordered a church built at Trefriw to spare her that walk.”

  “He loves her, then,” Isabelle declared with satisfaction, and Richard hid a smile, for he’d known she would be quickest to comprehend tangible expressions of caring.

  “Madame?” One of Isabelle’s ladies stood in the doorway. “Madame, the Lady Margaret de Lacy is without, seeks some moments with you.”

  Isabelle’s face was suddenly still, remote. “No,” she said. “I do not wish to see her.”

  As the woman withdrew, Richard gave Isabelle a pensive look. Like most people at John’s court, he had been shocked by William de Braose’s abrupt and unexpected fall from favor. The purported reason for the estrangement between John and de Braose was money; de Braose owed the crown a considerable sum, for in 1201 John had allowed de Braose to purchase the Irish honour of Limerick for five thousand marks, yet de Braose had unaccountably ignored the set schedule for payment, paying only a meagre hundred marks to date upon the debt. John had suddenly demanded payment in full, and when de Braose was unable or unwilling to comply, he found himself in political limbo, no longer welcome at John’s court.

  Richard did not doubt that Margaret de Lacy was here on her father’s behalf, but what interested him now was the finality in Isabelle’s refusal. Although she rarely interceded with John on behalf of petitioners, she generally accorded them a careless courtesy, was willing to hear them out. That she would deny Margaret de Lacy even the briefest audience was in itself significant to Richard, told him that de Braose was in much deeper disgrace than he’d realized.

  There could be only one logical explanation for this surprising rupture of a relationship that had endured for fully half of Richard’s lifetime, an explanation to be found within the shadowed silence of Rouen Castle. Richard was sure that Arthur was the key to the mystery of de Braose’s downfall. Just as de Braose was the key to Arthur’s disappearance.

  Richard was, even at eighteen, a realist. He loved his father, but it had been more than four years since any man had laid eyes upon Arthur. Now he hesitated, but the temptation was irresistible. “Isabelle, have you never asked Papa about Arthur?”

  “Jesú, no!” She was looking at him as if he were mad. “Indeed I have not!”

  “But are you not curious? Do you never wonder, never want to know the truth of it?”

  “No,” she said flatly. “I do not wonder. I do not ask.” The blue eyes were guarded, almost hostile. “I do not want to know.”

  22

  Aber, North Wales

  March 1208

  In Llewelyn’s absence, Joanna had presided over the evening meal in the great hall. Now servants had dismantled the trestle tables, and she’d seated herself upon the dais, was making a request that Llywarch sing for them. Her halting Welsh grated unbearably against Gruffydd’s ear. He hated how she mangled his language, hated her alien French accent, hated the way her clumsy efforts won his father’s uncritical praise.

  Feeling a tug at his sleeve, Gruffydd looked down, saw his little sister Marared holding out a thick strip of leather. “My dog’s collar,” she explained. “Make it fit tighter, Gruffydd.” He obligingly cut another hole with his eating knife, and she went off, content. Gruffydd waited a few moments, and then moved casually in the direction of the hearth, stopping before the cradle. Seeing that no one was watching him, he leaned over, stared down at his baby sister.

  He’d expected to hate her as he hated her mother. But each time he looked at her, he felt only relief, only an intense, abiding thankfulness that Joanna had not given birth to a son. For nine years he had been Llewelyn’s only son and heir; the birth, three years ago, of his brother Tegwared had been a severe shock to Gruffydd. But Tegwared did not live at Llewelyn’s court, was born of a concubine, and Gruffydd had gradually come around to a grudging acceptance of Cristyn’s son. Joanna’s son would be a far greater threat, a far more dangerous rival; although Welsh law did not distinguish between legitimate and illegitimate offspring, Holy Church did, would have to favor a child born in wedlock. If that woman ever bore Papa a son, he might lose all, even Papa’s love.

  Gruffydd drew an uneven breath, tried to fight back his fear. He knew she would poison Papa’s mind against him if she could. But he had to have more fait
h in Papa. He had to—Suddenly warned by a sixth-sense awareness, he raised his head. For the span of several hostile heartbeats, his eyes held Joanna’s, and then she looked away. Hot color flooded Gruffydd’s face. He’d seen her look at him that way before—every time he came within two feet of Elen. Damn her, did she think he’d ever hurt a baby? He reached defiantly for the rattle, held it within Elen’s range of vision. Elen was his sister, was not to blame for her Norman blood, and he would somehow see that she was raised right, raised Welsh. He’d not let that foreign woman win.

  “Take care, Gruffydd. Yours is too easy a face to read,” a voice cautioned behind him, and he spun around to face two of Ednyved’s sons, Hywel and Tudur. Tudur was the same age as Gruffydd; they’d both celebrated their twelfth birthdays within the past week. Hywel was two years older, was the one who’d spoken.

  “So? As long as I am not rude to her, what right has she to complain? She cannot fault me for what I’m thinking…at least not yet.” Across the hall, Joanna was thanking Llywarch, and as Gruffydd listened, his mouth twisted scornfully. “Did you ever hear anyone sound so peculiar? She makes a mockery of our tongue every time she opens her mouth!”

  Tudur gave a sympathetic nod, but Hywel shrugged. “I seem to remember you blaming her last year because she insisted upon speaking only French.”

  Gruffydd’s eyes narrowed. “Elen was named after one of the most celebrated of Welsh heroines, the Elen of the Hosts acclaimed in the Triads. But do you think she knows that? That she even knows what the Triads are? She asked Papa one question only, what Elen meant in Norman-French!”

  “I do not deny that she is ignorant of our history, of our ways,” Hywel conceded, then jerked his head in the direction of the Lady Gwenllian. “But I’d still trade our stepmother for yours any day!”

  “That shows how little you know, does it not?” Gruffydd snapped, and Hywel’s good humor vanished. For a moment the two boys glared at one another; although Hywel had the advantage in years, Gruffydd was only an inch shorter than he, and in their one brawl a few months back, they’d fought to a bloody draw. Now Hywel was the first to look away.